


The Thing About...

by twentystitches



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Boners and Feelings, Eventual Threesomes, Frottage, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Shower Sex, hanjobs, multi-orgasmic steve rogers, tags for oncoming chapters, vouyuerism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twentystitches/pseuds/twentystitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about Sam Wilson is he can't stop the free-fall, falling. There's no shoot to pull in these situations.</p><p>The thing about the Winter Solider is that he's not James Buchanan Barnes. Not any more. </p><p>The thing about Steve Rogers... </p><p> </p><p>  <i>(Pieces and bits. Doing that post-TWS thing where there’s wandering, hooking up and a lot of super-solider whispering with a very loose plot. Chapters will not all be in chronological order.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The thing about Steve Rogers

The thing about Steve Rogers is that he doesn't come off as that big of a guy until you're close. He carries himself light and unobtrusive. Sam's met guys five-foot-five who demand more space than all six feet plus of pure Americana that Steve's housed in. The guy can tuck himself away into a corner like no one else and it doesn't seem _possible_ but Sam thinks that's another lingering from the old days. Those days he's hearing more about lately to fill in the miles and miles and miles and _'where are we even, seriously'_ that they eat up hitting the road. He never really harps about his previous stature but it's inked into every word he speaks - and the little guy that's flashed by the media or in museums makes a lot more sense because for once it's not being presented for the wow of contrast. Reckless, stubborn, headstrong. A guy with a moral compass, this aching sense of personal _truth_ \- that all sounds the same and it must of been a hell of a thing in such a tiny package. 

It's a hell of a thing as he is now.

Now when they've finally given into about one month and a twelve states worth of tension building between them. He didn't want to push; he heard the way Steve's voice formed Bucky's name and it wasn't his place but eventually he nudged, tripped - looked him square in the face and let him know that _/you can ask, you know that, right? Not going to bite you or take off. You're stuck with me and you have to ask nicely for the first'_.

Nerves. Nerves. He felt nerves in the way Steve laughed at that, rubbing his palms down the wash of his jeans. The way he shook his head.

"Sam..."

"It doesn't have to be everything forever." Though Sam knows well Steve leans towards that sort of guy. 

Soft: "Come here."

Sam does gladly and Steve asks without words, with an eager soft mouth and kisses that ramp up into something breath-stealing, dizzying and _hot_ in moments even with Sam pushing him back along the bed, even with both of them pulling fitfully at each other's clothing letting out victorious groans when another piece is worked off and there's more contact to be had. He touches the tension that's coiled under his skin and he marvels at how it it eases under his hands and his mouth. Steve gives himself up and over without a fight.

Sam would even go so far to call it relief and he wonders, wonders how long it's been. If there's _been_ anybody else since he woke up.

"Jesus Christ, Sam-"

" _Yeah_?" He croons it, licking around the warm curve of Steve's open mouth as they fit together- finally stripped, finally done with all that, though Sam will say he's got no issues on the actual process of getting Steve undressed, under him and panting. Those large hands are gripping at his back, he's _everywhere_ and it's like lying on something as solid and sure as a mountain with the give, the willingness of a dune. Steve asks and Sam gives. He reaches between them and fists both thick lines of their cocks in his hand, circling the slick head of Steve's which elicits another one of those toe-curling moans right into his ear.

“ _Sam._ ”

“Still here. You gonna wear it out?” He feels dizzy in a way that's close to how it is when he touches the sky. If he had patience in this moment, if it hadn't been weeks of touching and pulling back like it burned and sketching looks elsewhere when one or the other of them come out of the shower he would have stopped to get real lube and sit himself nice, tight and right inside of Steve but the mere idea of breaking away-

And Steve's doing this choked groaning laugh number that has him breaking his pace, shoving his hand into the pillow just above Steve's shoulder and digging in to hold himself together. They're like a couple of teenagers, no joke. It'd be embarrassing if it didn't feel as good as it did, if every rut and thrust wasn't being met in turn and if Steve didn't turn his head away to warn in a breaking voice:

“I'm not-”

Sam hums, pushing hard into his grasp and the building friction between them. He's close too, heavy and full with his balls drawing up tight. “All night,” he points out, presses his forehead into the strength of Steve's neck, losing himself as he stops just hold and starts stroking. One of Steve's hands comes up to grasp at the back of his head and Sam takes that too – working and sucking up a spot low on his neck. “I've got you. Come on.”

That's all he needs to say. Like permission or blessing, once the words are impressed into Steve's skin they arc through and he comes moaning thickly, coming thicker in hot spurts that stripe his stomach and coat Sam's hand. And it's probably the hottest thing Sam's ever felt: Steve shuddering under him, grasping at the back of his neck like he needs an anchor to keep from being swept completely away. His knees come up and Sam adjusts appropriately, cradled between but still holding. 

The thing about Steve Rogers is he looks absolutely devastating after he comes. They pull away enough that Sam can look down and his heart feels like it does a flip just as much as his dick throbs.

“You're...” Sam chuckles, shaking his head at the confusion that doesn't quite want to chase away that bliss-strewn glow Steve's all but bathing in. “You're a dangerous man, Rogers. And you're still hard?” The tentative wet stroke he gives,gets a restless squirm and a soft moan that didn't beg over-sensitivity. 

“It's a thing.” One he's apparently well aware of, given the careless shrug and that smile. That damned smile. So flushed, pinked-lipped and thoroughly pleased. Sam wants to know how it's possible to look hot, cute and still somehow _wholesome_ while streaked with vicious white.

Sam's brows raise audibly. “A thing? How much of a thing?” 

“As much of a thing as you want.” He drags Sam back in and kisses thanks. “But I'm good for at least three before it starts to hurt.” 

And of course he is. For the thousandth time Sam wonders what they put in that supersolider serum. It clearly outdid itself. 

“Impressed?” Cheeky, mouthing, Steve grins into their kiss and reaches down to take Sam up in his large hand. He pumps him with focus and care and purpose, grinning all the more when Sam's breath hitches and his eyes shut as he feels. For right now in that moment the heavy weight he drags isn't a burden he's carrying and he's lighter for it and Sam's drunk on the knowledge he's done that, caught by the sure way that wrist moves. Once they decide it's easy. It definitely won't be easy in the morning or when they find Bucky but those shadows lurk outside of the bed. 

“Yeah, yeah. You aren't bad for an old guy.” That level of sass needs to be taken down a notch so he cuts under and finds another spot on Steve's neck to retaliate with. And it works. Point for him. 

When they part, Steve regards him with steady, warm eyes. His touch slides down the back of Sam's head, over his neck and smooths dark skin of his shoulder. “Fuck me?”

“Oh, yeah.” Sam's reply was slow and low, his mouth tracking up Steve's throat to his chin. He asks, _he asks_ and in that moment there's a stretching list of things he would have given him. “I think I can manage that.”

Though, he would later ask himself who he's kidding

The thing about Steve Rogers it that Sam sees that he's completely and utterly falling for him. 

And he doesn't know, can't tell, just how that's going to turn out.


	2. Home

“Two months, Sam.”

A statement both of them know acutely. Three months of rolling from place to place, space to space, picking up a trail but never coming on the heels. It felt like the distance between something fresh and some sort of hope they'd catch up was widening in by the leagues. 

He can see acceptance of that's been working primarily through Steve's jaw, is something that's killing him.

Calls have started. Emails from what regrouped itself from the wreckage of the helicarriers. Sam's talked to Tony Stark and that was kinda a thing.

Got new wings out of it, though. Couldn't complain.

“We would have found him if he wanted to be found. Didn't kill me. He dragged me out. He dragged me out but he won't-”

Sam's touch is crossing along Steve's lower back. He rubs, nothing more. “Took you a while to make up your mind too, didn't it? To come home?” In fact they both know that's been a very recent development.

“I didn't _have_ -” And Steve's cut open enough to let that bleed through.

“Yeah. Exactly. Plus I think your apartment is still probably full of holes.”

Steve subsides, huffing at that last bit. “So I'll have to find a new place.”

“You can crash at my house while you look. I'm used to your snoring.” 

Steve's got a dozen types of smiles and he mixes, matches with them. Closed, thin-lipped smiles of light-gray humor and then the ones that are mostly with is eyes, grateful ones- and he combines them both right then. “I don't snore.” 

(There's also ones that he throws Sam when they're in the middle of a firefight, desperate HYDRA agents with freakish aim picking off chips of the cover they've found and Sam's deemed that the _crazy motherfucker_ smile. Captain America is kind of a crazy motherfucker who at least has the grace to be somewhat indestructible.)

He rolls his eyes, pats Steve's back with two steady thumps and slouches down in the passenger seat. It's 0015, they're somewhere in the deserts of Nevada and there's so little light pollution they can actually see the riot of stars above. Steve's hunched over the steering wheel of the car, his face turned to look over. A half-full moon outlines his profile, classic as ever but tired. 

“You want to find a place for the night?”

Steve shakes his head. “No.” He sits up and starts the car again. Sam stretches out his legs, settles in. They pull out, make a U-turn. 

They start heading back. 

Fifteen minutes of silence later Steve speaks up again so offended Sam wonders what he's been mulling over the entire time.

“I don't _snore._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More gen than not this round. Thanks for reading. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! I don't have a beta, so any grammar/spelling mistakes are my own. Thanks for reading.


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